Her heart stuttered at the aching depths behind that arrogant facade, clearly visible to her. How could the world not see how he burned, how he writhed within, how he fought back the pain with all his might and mind?
“How do you know that I did not?” The whisper escaped from her lips before she could stop it.
He drew back from her, from that confession, physically stepping back from the words that hung in the air between them.
“No.” The word slipped from her mouth in a whisper, a shout from her soul to his. “Stay.”
Cas closed his eyes at the word. He was not that man. He did not stay. He never stayed. Miranda would learn soon enough that he only broke hearts, not awakened them.
He would likely destroy her, for she was no jaded Society woman, accustomed to a string of lovers just to interrupt the tedium of the rich and idle. Miranda was good and genuine, a creature of sincerity and decency.
She was doomed if she fell in love with him.
He was damned, for he didn’t care. He ached for her as he’d never ached before. Before he could stop himself, he reached for her, his hands closing over her shoulders as he pulled her close to press against his body.
A startled sound escaped her lips before he covered them with his. He fell, hard and spiraling, into the wet, sweet wonder of her mouth.
Miranda’s mouth had powers the like of which he’d never known. Kissing Miranda felt like flying, like falling, like spinning out of control and never wishing to land.
Miranda’s mind went dark with the shock of her complete and total arousal as his hot mouth took ownership of hers.
A kiss, it seemed, was not simply a kiss, after all.
That was her last coherent thought as Cas pressed her back hard against the carved bedpost and kept her pinned there with his big body as his hands swept over her, spreading, kneading, pulling, and invading as his mouth ravaged hers.
She could only gasp and cling to his weskit as he stripped her nightdress from her, rendering her naked against his clothed body. He held her there, the kiss going on and on, as his fingers slid down between them and found her slit.
No one had ever touched her there but herself. Even her husband had meticulously kept his hands to himself, gingerly positioning himself without touch.
Cas did more than touch. He delved, he stroked, invaded, all the while his tongue and lips took her mouth, nibbling, sucking, driving her onward so forcefully, she fought for breath, fought for sanity, fought to give back to him—until she abruptly melted into him, yielding completely to his skilled and unrelenting stimulation.
She had mounted this runaway stallion with a single word. With her capitulation, she devoted herself to riding him out, taming him, subduing him with her very surrender.
Immediately his urgency slowed. His hands turned to ease and warmth, his mouth gentled, though he still owned her lips and tongue with his.
He allowed her to move away from the cold, rigid bedpost and lay her down upon the bed. At last he pulled his mouth from hers, but only long enough to strip off his clothing.
She watched his body emerge as she lay quivering, unbearably aroused. He was beautifully made, from his narrow hips to his wide, rippling shoulders. His skin gleamed more golden than hers in the candlelight, sunlight to her moonlight, smoldering heat to her cool glow.
His clothing a pile upon the floor, Cas turned back to find Miranda demurely curled up on the coverlet, tugging a fold of it to cover her breasts, her tucked-up legs attempting to hide her furred mound. Cas ached at the sweet shyness of her, though he knew her to be wet and ready for him.
When I am through with you, Mira, you will flaunt your lovely body like the jewel it is.
When I am through with you.
He would be through, probably soon. He would leave her behind, likely devastated and shattered at his betrayal.
He didn’t care. He had to have her and he had to have her now.
He wanted to be a gentleman and ready her, to gentle her into her own arousal, but he’d been hard for hours thinking of her.
He rolled her over in one motion, parting her thighs with one knee, spreading her wide open with the other. Wider, until her lips parted in surprise.
“Darling, I—”
He kissed her hard, before she could utter a protest he would have to heed. His erect cock jutting hard forward, it took only a slight motion to center himself in her wet heat. He drove his cock into her, forcing himself slowly into her soft, damp body.
She gasped into his mouth and writhed under him, around him, impaled and helpless as she clung to his shoulders.
Yet she did not stop kissing him, did not pull away to let a breath of protest pass her lips. He loved her so at that moment, loved the depth of her willingness.
He left her lips and raised himself onto his hands, tried to give her a moment to adjust to the length and width of his all-night erection, but she kept twisting and writhing against him. She wanted more, wanted him.
The surge of possessive lust had him withdraw sharply and thrust hard yet again. She keened and panted and let her nails bite into the skin of his shoulders. “Please … again!” she gasped.
His amazing Mira. He drove himself into her again, then a slow torturous withdrawal that had them both groaning, followed by a single plunging thrust that made them gasp with the intensity.
She turned her head and bit his wrist. “Again,” she begged.
He did, again and again and again. The bed shook with the force of his thrusts. She whimpered with each torturously slow withdrawal. Each one was met with her heated, writhing response. She begged for more, pleading with him to go faster but he refused. He wanted to stay inside her forever and he knew that once he reached orgasm, he would have to dress and leave—leave so that Poll could come back in a few hours.
He kissed her hard, silencing her. She whimpered into his mouth and dug her nails into his skin. On the next deep, hard thrust, she came, hot and tight and throbbing around him—
Need swelled within Cas. He could not bear such need. The only way he knew to conquer it was to conquer her.
She wasn’t passive. No, she was an eager and ardent participant in her own transformation. Once sweet and naïve, she was now a wild creature in his hands.
Yet he had yet to reach the limits of her openness, of her honesty. What she wanted, she did not hide. Instead, she reached for it, for him, with her arms open and that smile in her eyes.
And he could not get enough.
There must be an end. She must have a limit, a rule, a distance that she would not journey. Cas knew if he met that distance, then his obsession with her would ease and wane.
He felt the urge to push her onward. He wanted to press her, even as he stood in awe of her, even as he feared that wonder within him. If her open being had no walls, no bottom, no limits—might he simply fall forever?
She sighed, inhaling as another shudder racked her body. Her eyelids fluttered as she rolled her head on the pillow. Then she opened her eyes of endless sea and stared at him in wonder.
Her smile ruined him.
He moved over her, into her, feeling her body give before his. With one hand he wrapped her braid around his fist until her head dropped back, exposing her long neck. He took a small bite of that neck, worrying her with his teeth until she sighed a whimper.
Hovering over her lips, his fist tight in her hair, he growled, “Mrs. Talbot, we have only begun.”
She turned to warm wax in his hands. Her acquiescence whispered across his lips in a wordless sigh.
It disturbed him. Memory seared him, the sight of her pulling Poll through the window. Madness burned hot through his blood to think of her in Poll’s hands.
The window … it was a dark and unworthy thought, to put her on display, to claim her before the world. Yet he could not help himself. He lifted her damp, quivering body into his arms and carried her across the room, ignoring her sound of inquiry.
When he pinned her to the window, feel
ing her shiver at the chilly glass, feeling her tremble at her wicked exposure—he thought surely then that she would draw back from him. Miranda was a lady, a respectable woman regarded well, if indifferently, by Society.
If even one person outside saw her, she would be an instant scandal. The thought of this ought to have made her pull away, to refuse him.
Miranda was no more. Her mind was lost in the wild storm of sensation and emotion pouring into her body from Cas, from his hands, from his scarred and lonely heart, from his body, from the slick hardness of his cock inside her.
Her eyes were open, but she did not see the night city stretching out before her. She had no thought of the park or the square, or of passing strangers that might have business there in the middle of the night.
There was no one in the world but Cas. Cas within her, behind her, around her.
His need overwhelmed her, carrying her own off in the pounding tide of his yearning, his lost, dark craving for her.
Beautiful, pitiless, furious Cas. Lost, aching, wounded Cas.
She knew nothing about the cause of the gaping tear she felt in his heart. She only knew the sensation of being the recipient of that wicked, storm-tossed desire—and knew it for the desperate grasp of a drowning man that it was.
Cas drove Miranda onward, but she continued to absorb his worst, to receive each deep plunge of his cock as if it were a caress.
So lost in the aching sweetness of her hot, willing body, he ignored the fear, turned his back on the terror that, perhaps, just perhaps, he was not fooling her one little bit.
She had three orgasms while he kept her there, taking her on and on, harder and harder, until the power of his thrust vibrated into the glass itself. See, world? Mine!
She took his wicked torment until he couldn’t bear it. Though he longed to make it last, his orgasm ripped through him, tearing a roar of satisfaction from his throat all unwilling as he thought of her waiting in the window, looking across the park—
At him.
He exploded into her with a pagan shout of ecstasy. Then her knees gave and she slid down the glass in a quivering puddle of hoarse and perspiring female. When he lifted her into his arms he could feel how the window had chilled the front of her body. Her breasts were tight and cold and her belly and hands too.
He placed her in her bed, alone. I am not the man who stays.
Yet she clung to him when he left her, holding his wrist, calling him by name.
Cas.
His name reminded him, chilled him, and strengthened his resolve. He pulled away from her, even fled her, striding naked from her bedchamber with his clothes in his hands.
He’d almost stayed in those sweet, willing arms. He’d almost forgotten the game, almost betrayed himself unforgivably.
He’d almost not cared.
* * *
Two men. One light, one dark. One rough, one smooth. To be surrounded by such wealth of possibilities, after all my years of airless, loveless despair.
A dangerous choice lies before me.
Yet I have already chosen, have I not?
Chapter Eighteen
Poll had raided the larder early in the morning for a hurried breakfast. He had not slept well at all. He had gone to bed last night trying to think of some new and fascinating way to end his courtship of Miranda.
The old method, the one that never failed—breaking the lady’s heart with some act of intentional betrayal that would lead the lovely thing to order him out of her sight forever—wouldn’t do this time.
This was no Society jade he dealt with, not a woman who would secretly enjoy the drama and spectacle of a torrid end to a tepid affair. Sweet, ethical Miranda had done nothing to deserve such treatment and the thought of upsetting her actually made Poll’s stomach hurt.
So he wouldn’t say a word, or give any sign that he didn’t want her after all. At least, not until he figured out how to let her down so easily that she scarcely noticed it.
With one hand on a pie plate containing Philpott’s very good berry pie—although not as good as Callie’s!—a small dish of clotted cream caught Poll’s eye.
She’d so enjoyed that day they’d sneaked onto the palace grounds.
Ah. The very thing. A silly gesture, a carpet picnic designed to entertain Miranda, to make her laugh, to distract her from the fact that he didn’t actually want her. He grimaced at the memory of the kiss.
After arriving at Miranda’s, he wondered if Cas had given up as well. Casual questioning of the butler, Twigg, had left him certain that his twin had not visited Miranda in days.
“This is my apology for barging in on you last night!” he declared when Tildy, delighted by the romantic notion, let him into the missus’s bedchamber with his basket of God-I’m-sorry-but-I’m-done.
First he spread the same horse blanket he’d used on the palace lawn before the fire; then he unpacked his array of tasty morsels.
Poll completed his preparations with a smile, then turned to her with a theatrical bow and an outstretched hand. “If it please my lady?”
Miranda gazed down at the playful breakfast picnic in dismay, her cheeks flaming with shame. Oh, how was she to tell him?
She was not sorry for the astounding experience of the night before. Every moment had been a revelation. Of Cas, of herself, of a world of sensuality and passion that she’d only vaguely imagined.
Even the way he’d left—in full naked flight!—told her more than he’d dared to say.
No, she had no regrets about such a wondrous night. Instead, she was deeply ashamed of her fickleness that had led such a fine and good man as Poll to believe in her affections, when all the time she’d been harboring strong, undeniable feelings for his brother.
She’d simply been too afraid, or perhaps naïve, or constrained by what she thought she ought to want, to understand that wasn’t how the heart worked.
She raised her damp, pained eyes to meet Poll’s.
“I fear that I have chosen, sir.”
Poll knew at once. Miranda looked to be in agony. He decided to spare her any further pain. “You’ve chosen Cas,” he said bluntly.
She nodded miserably. “He came to me last night, after you’d gone. It was … he was.…”
Poll sighed. It never failed. Bloody Cas. “Irresistible?”
Miranda nodded, her attention fixed back on the carpet.
Poll shook his head with a small, rueful laugh. He stepped closer and reached for her hand. He caught her smaller fist in his and smoothed her fingers open. “Miranda.” He dropped a kiss on her downcast brow. “I cannot say that it doesn’t sting, dear one, but in truth I knew last night at your window that you and I were not meant to be.”
She lifted her gaze to his, relief in her eyes. “That awkward kiss?”
He snorted. “That awful, unfulfilling, cringe-worthy kiss. And the one after that was even worse.”
She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “Pray, Poll, be not shy. Tell me your true opinion.”
He laughed and pulled her close in a warm, brotherly hug. “You are a genuine Original, Miranda Talbot.” His arms tightened about her as she leaned against him, limp with obvious relief. “I am glad it was I who rescued you on that street, for you are a treasure indeed. I will take you as sister with all happiness.”
At those words, she drew back slightly to raise her eyes to his. “Sister? I—he—I do not know if Cas shares my feelings. I’d thought…” She shook off that dream. “But is it best not to build cloud castles, don’t you think? He has made no sign of devotion, other than … well … his desire.” She shook her head once more.. “I thought I knew last night. I thought I felt so much more—”
Poll smiled. “Miranda, I know my twin better than anyone on this earth. I have never seen him like this. His heart is engaged, trust in that. Whether or not he knows what to do about that, or even if he wishes it, only time will tell.”
Hope had begun to bloom in her sea green eyes, but the light slowly fade
d in confusion. “He does not wish to love me?”
Poll struggled to find the words to explain something he had only the vaguest appreciation of. “A long time ago, something—or someone—happened to him. We were young men, barely past boyhood. I know there was a woman, but he was very secretive about her. It was the first secret he ever kept from me. She wounded him deeply. I don’t know much more, and ought not to tell it anyway, but I can attest that from that day forward, he was not the same Cas. She broke him, in some way that I thought would never heal, never change, until I saw the way he looked at you.”
“I love him,” Miranda stated firmly. She smiled. “There. I said it. Right out loud, to boot!” She pressed her hands to her throat in wonder. “I have made my decision. I cannot wait to tell him!”
“No!” Poll hadn’t meant to shout, but the protest came from a place of such surety that he could not help it.
She flinched and stepped back from him. “Poll, you claimed to be resolved to my choice!”
He shook his head hurriedly. “No, that isn’t the problem. Cas…” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, trying to decipher what had been sheer instinct. Then he had it. He weighed his words for a moment. “He will flee you.”
She frowned. “But you say he loves me. Why would he flee love?”
He tilted his head. “Why do you flee marriage?”
Folding her arms, she glanced away. “That is another matter entirely. For a woman to give up her independence thus—you have no idea how easy it is for a man to abuse such power!”
He held out his hands. “Do you think a woman does not have power over a man? Cas is turning himself inside out right now, trying to deny the very fact that you rule over his heart!”
Understanding dawned. She pressed her palms together at her midriff. “Oh. Oh … bother.”
She was far too civilized for her own good. Poll sighed at the twinge of affection that washed over him. She might not be the woman for him, but he hoped that someday, that faceless future woman might bear a rather astonishing resemblance to Mrs. Talbot.
And Then Comes Marriage Page 16